Monday, September 21, 2015

Graham Teaser #1

"The World: According to Graham" will be live on Tuesday, September 29!

I’m
still standing in the same spot, lost in my vivid thoughts of this woman that
has taken my brain hostage, when she dances into the living room with the phone
pressed against her shoulder while she’s attempting to slide on yoga pants.

“I’m still in D.C. I can be there in fifteen
minutes,” she says to whomever is on the other end of the phone.

She’s
leaving. Did she just say that she’s leaving me? We’ve only shared the same
oxygen for about ten minutes. She’s not going anywhere.

Before I
can stop myself, I’ve snatched the phone out of her hand and ended her call.
“Now . . .” She finishes as if she had to say that last word in the sentence.

I hold
the phone high over my head and give it a jiggle, anticipating the wildfire
that I just ignited.

“What do
you think that you’re doing?” she demands, standing in front of me in my shirt
with her yoga pant leg only pulled up to the knee on one leg. Her face is
flushed with anger and her eyes are slits. A little V forms between them.

Somewhere
on the edge of my consciousness, I get a nudge that this maybe wasn’t the best
idea that I’ve ever had. Quickly, I dismiss it. I started this war so I might
as well win it.

I smirk.
“Saving me the time and energy of explaining that you’re not going to work.
Yesterday was your last day. Today you are unemployed.”

“Don’t
remind me.” She taps her foot against the tile, not bothering to reach for her
phone.

She
begins her speech with “she may not be paid by the White House any longer, but
she will always take the White House phone calls” and ends it with something
about national security and me being an asshole.

All I
hear is the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons.

In the
middle of her tirade, I turn around and walk back into the kitchen to pour
myself a cup of coffee. Apparently, this was not the best move either because
she follows behind me, continuing her speech, only now it’s about how I don’t
listen to her.

Whatever.

I
continue to ignore her while I casually fill my mug. She’s drawing closer to my
back. I know this because she’s getting louder, lecturing me on how I don’t
have the right to dictate something or another, when I’ve finally had enough.

I spin
around quickly and grab her under her arms, lifting her off the ground. She
screeches like a hyena, demanding that I put her down. Her face is pink and
hair flying as she balls up her fists, attempting to hit me. I dodge her punches
and raise her up, placing her on top of my refrigerator. I note that during
some part of her fit, she’d removed the yoga pants and is back only in my shirt.
Works for me.

“What in
the fuck do you think you’re doing, Graham Jackson? Get me down from here,” she
demands. She’s looks just like Tinker Bell when she’s mad: rosy red cheeks,
brows drawn together, lips thin as slits,
arms crossed over her chest. Even when she’s furious she’s gorgeous. Her
alabaster-toned legs cross at the ankle and contrast beautifully against my
black refrigerator. Stepping back, I admire just how fuckably luscious she is
when she’s making bodily threats against me.

Turning
around, I walk to my coffee mug, attempting to camouflage the smile that is
cracking my cheeks. A thought crosses my mind that makes me have to bite the
inside of my lip to keep from laughing out loud. How much money could I make by selling tickets to see the great Rachael
Early helpless on top of a refrigerator? Millions. I could make millions.

Leaning
against the counter, I take my first sip of coffee and face the wrath of my pissed-off
Tinker Bell.

“Quit
smiling,” she seethes. “None of this is funny. The White House needs me and I’m
stuck up”—she gestures wildly at her perch—“up
here.”

“So you
are,” I reply as I take another sip, smirking at how damn cute she looks.

Her arms
unfold and she lets out a hmmmph.

This is
a Mexican standoff, except that I’m winning. She’s pregnant, and if she’s
anything like my sister was, she’ll eventually have to use the restroom, and
she can’t get down without my help.

Her
phone is still in my hand. I place it dramatically on the counter, as if I’m
presenting a precious jewel. A little part of my brain says that I should turn it
into a puppet and make it do a hilarious dance, but then I think better of that
plan. No need to poke the bear.

Finding Infinity

Falling Into Infinity

From Now Until Infinity

♥ Favorite Places

About Layne

Layne Harper taught Tom Brady how to throw a football, and she’s E.L. James’ red room consultant. In her spare time, she travels the world with Angelina Jolie helping orphans. Not really, but it sounds more exciting than her normal life. She’s mastered the art of takeout dining, turning down the volume right before the singer says a bad word, and disguising wine in a thermos for evening soccer games. She can make a snow cone that rivals the best in the world. Layne writes constantly in her head, on napkins, her kids’ homework, or whatever is close by. If you want to know more about Layne, check out an interview that she did with The SubClub Books.